


Transylvanian Hunger

by Teese



Series: The Depths of Darkness [1]
Category: Burzum (Band), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Bonding, Disappointment, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, M/M, Threats, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6105433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varg Vikernes is a seventeen-year-old boy with his mind set on one thing: black metal. The much older Øystein Aarseth decides to take the up-and-coming young musician under his wings, thus inviting the boy to stay with him and the rest of Mayhem in Ski for a few weeks. Varg is excited to share his ideas with his idol, the musical pioneer Øystein Aarseth, but once he gets to know a certain Swede, things take a turn for the unexpected… what began as a mere holiday eventually becomes something far more evil. Their lives will never go back to normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I started on this story quite some time ago and I consider it to be my best so far. It isn’t a “typical” slash fic. It’s going to be very long and I’ve put a lot work into the story itself, it’s not a brainless and overly sexualised romance, which wouldn’t work with these characters anyways… Things will eventually happen between Varg and Dead, but it’ll take some time to get there… patience is a virtue ;D 
> 
> This pairing isn’t the most popular one and I never actually started writing this with the intention of sharing it, but if someone enjoys reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it… well, then I’m happy!

Like most Decembers in Norway, the weather was bitterly cold, and Varg sat with his cheek in his hand, watching the snowy landscape outside the window. He was on the train, not yet old enough to drive a car by himself, and he was waiting with something like anticipation coiling in his stomach. While he had met Øystein a couple of times before, he hadn’t really spent much time outside of Bergen. He was, after all, only seventeen years old. His mother hadn’t wanted him to leave. They had argued about it for days and days, but Varg had made up his mind, and whenever Varg had made up his mind about something, he was unwavering in his beliefs.

The train finally stopped at his station. As he walked out of the coach, he stretched and yawned, feeling a bit stiff after sitting on his ass for so many hours. The climate in Ski was very different from that in Bergen, milder and less windy, but it was a Nordic winter nonetheless. There was a heavy, wet snow falling to the ground. Needless to say, it felt pleasant to go inside of the warm railway station, and he stood there waiting for a few minutes, hoping Øystein hadn’t gotten the time wrong.

When fifteen minutes had gone by, Varg could see someone entering through the main door. It was a rather tiny man with long hair and a beard, a man who was familiar to Varg, and he smiled and walked over to greet him.

“Euronymous!” he said with great enthusiasm, giving the older man a half hug.

“You twat, Kristian,” the guitarist said the moment Varg released him. “I had to park the car and everything, cost me a tenner. Why didn’t you just go outside?”

“Uh, well,” Varg said, looking a bit forlorn. “It’s Varg, by the way.”

The shorter man didn’t reply to that, he simply rolled his eyes, but there was a tiny smile to his lips that he just couldn’t fight off. “Ok, whatever. Let’s get you to the house, eh? Jørn and Jan are visiting their parents and shit, but Dead and I are- well, I’m holding the fort. Dead’s just…well, you’ll see.”

When they got into the car, Øystein put on the radio, playing some random shitty music, and they drove for maybe twenty minutes until they reached a tiny village in the outskirts of Ski. They entered the dark woods and drove on a bumpy gravel road for a few minutes. It led them to an old, brown building that hadn’t been renovated since the 60s. The windows were dark, but he could see a faint light coming from one of the rooms upstairs.

“Welcome to little Transylvania,” Øystein said as a declaration of something Varg didn’t catch. His voice was dripping with irony, and when Varg turned to face him, he could see a humoured smile toying on his lips.

“You’ll see,” was all the explanation he got.

 

* * *

 

 

When they stepped inside of the house, Varg was surprised to find that everything was as dark and as cold as the grave itself. The older man switched on the light and told Varg to take his seat on the sofa. The fabric was stained and worn and very uninviting, but the seventeen-year-old sat down nonetheless. A glass of red wine suddenly appeared on the table in front of him. Øystein smiled and took a sip out of his own glass.

“I… I don’t really drink.”

“I don’t really care,” Øystein said, already having finished half his glass. “Besides, it’s rude not to drink when someone’s already poured you a glass.”

Varg pressed his lips together in a firm line, feeling a bit uncomfortable about going against his principles, but he took a sip in spite of his aversions. The taste wasn’t at all nice. He wanted to spit it out again, but swallowed it instead, making a bit of a grimace in the process.

“Good boy,” Øystein said and chuckled. It made Varg feel even more uneasy, but he didn’t voice his distress.

“So,” the seasoned guitarist said, putting his now empty glass down on the coffee table. The table was dirty too. There was a thick layer of grime and spilled liquids. Some of it was blood. “You’re serious about leaving Old Funeral?”

“Very.”

Øystein paused, having probably expected a more elaborated answer. “And what comes next?”

“I have a project in mind,” Varg said and he suddenly felt more eager to talk to Øystein about his visions and his future. He took another sip of the wine, trying his best to please the man in front of him. “It’s a bit… it’s a bit complicated maybe, but not really, and-“

The sound of a wretched scream suddenly pierced through the air, stopping Varg midsentence. As the scream ceased, the two men looked at one another. Varg was frowning quite a bit, not really sure what he had just heard, and Øystein just heaved a sigh of annoyance. “I’m sorry about that. We’ve got a bit of an issue with our… Dead.”

“Your… Pelle?” the younger man asked, the frown still attached to his face. He had heard them speak of the frontman before, but had never seen him in the flesh. The rumours about him were strange, to say the least.

Another scream filled the air. This time he could recognise actual words, not just pained screams.

“… He’s practicing?”

Øystein rolled his eyes. “I guess. But please, tell me about your little project, Varg.”

The seventeen-year-old smiled. “Burzum,” he said. “It’s my own creation. No one else but me. I believe I can create something far more… evil, and dark, without any other stupid band members to ruin it.”

The older man didn’t look completely convinced, but he nodded his head nonetheless, finding the idea to be somewhat intriguing. He hadn’t heard about anyone else wanting to do something like that. But Varg was Varg – an egocentric little brat. Øystein quite liked that about him. He liked the energy.

“The idea is fascinating to me,” he admitted after a few seconds of anticipation. When these words had fallen from his lips, Varg felt relieved. “You’re such a complex being, Varg. It’s great. Not all are worthy of being here, you know? But you- you Varg, you’re very worthy. You have my full support.”

Varg was about to reply to this, but he felt the strange sensation of being watched, and from the corner of his eye, he could see a movement. It was the vocalist. He was seated in the staircase, his blue eyes big as they took in the stranger – the intruder? Pelle couldn’t tell.

“You must be Dead,” he said and rose from him seat, walking over to the skinny blonde. Pelle shied away from the handshake, simply staring at the hand that had been offered. “… Yes.”

When the Swede didn’t accept the handshake, Varg withdrew his hand. “I’m Varg.”

“Okay.”

“Stop creeping him the fuck out, Pelle,” Øystein reprimanded him from the sofa. He was pouring himself yet another glass of wine.

“… I’m not Pelle, I’m Dead.”

Varg didn’t really know why, but he felt extremely uncomfortable in his presence. Upon closer inspection, Varg could tell that the Swede was wearing dirty clothes. He was unnaturally skinny, as if he had been starving for months, and his hair was unkempt and messy, like he hadn’t washed or brushed it for weeks.

“Would you like some wine, Dead? We’re just discussing my project, Burzum-“

His words faltered when he saw that blood was dripping from the sleeves of Dead’s sweater. “Shit,” he whispered and took a few steps backwards. “What’s wrong now?” Øystein sighed, getting back up on his feet.

“… He’s bleeding. A lot.”

Upon hearing these words, Pelle climbed back up the stairs, disappearing into the dark.

“Like I said before,” Øystein said, looking at the drops of blood on the floor with disgust. “Welcome to Transylvania.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Varg had been given the room next to Dead’s room – or should he say tomb? He had locked the door, and he’d even put some empty cans in front of it. That way, he’d wake up should someone attempt to open it. For all he knew, there could be more than one key, and he was more than a little scared of the vampire-like vocalist, not at all wanting to wake up to his grim countenance.

After about five minutes of staring into the blackness of the room, Varg fell asleep. His sleep was restless though, and he woke up a few times, feeling as if something wasn’t right. Exactly what was amiss, he couldn’t tell.

At one point, he needed to take a piss. As he walked down the stairs, scared to death that Dead would make an appearance, pretending to be Dracula or some other weird shit, he could see a pale light coming from outside. It struck him as odd. No one else lived nearby and everyone in the house was, as far as he knew, sound asleep. He was quick to finish things up in the bathroom, now a bit curious about what he had seen.

“What the…” he muttered to himself as he peeked through the chequered curtains in the hallway.

Varg put on his boots and the long leatherjacket he had left in the sofa earlier that evening. Sneaking out through the door, he was careful not to make a sound, and he nearly crawled through the snow and towards the torch – or what he believed to be a torch. It was moving, getting farther and farther out of sight, but he was determined to find out what the hell was going on.

When he got closer, he began hiding behind the trees to make sure whoever it was wouldn’t discover him. Soon he was close enough to make out the contour of the person holding the torch, and he was almost surprised, though it lasted only a moment.

“… Dead,” he breathed, watching the skinny man. He was now sitting on the ground, only attired in his sleepwear. His feet were bare against the fresh layer of snow.

The blonde man was staring into the night sky. Above them was the full moon. And then Dead did the unthinkable. He put the torch – his only source of light – into the snow. Varg wanted to yell at him, but the darkness overwhelmed him, and before he could as much as think, he felt cold fingers wrap around his wrist and a hand over his mouth.

“Not one word,” Øystein whispered. His voice was so low that Varg almost couldn’t hear, and still he managed to make it sound like a hiss. Varg could only nod his head in agreement. The last thing he wanted was for Dead to find them.

Øystein, who was more familiar with the woods than Varg was, dragged both of them back to the house. Once inside, he nearly threw Varg down on the floor, staring at him with anger flaring in his eyes.

“Are you retarded?” he asked. “He brings his knife with him to that place. There are dead animal carcasses there, dangling from the trees! Had he seen you, he could’ve fucking killed you!”

“… W-what?”

The older man was glaring daggers at him. “He’s dangerous. He threw a knife at me last month.”

Varg felt sick upon hearing this. He couldn’t understand why they hadn’t just kicked him out of the band, if things were that bad.

“You’re lucky I saw you sneaking out of the house. I suggest that you go to bed before he gets back.”

The younger man nearly ran up the staircase, scared half to death that Dead would come back for him. He knew that he needed to get his hands on some weapons, and soon, so he’d be able to defend himself from that psychotic maniac. He’d work on that very, very soon.


	2. The Pure Ones

The next day was nerve-wracking. When Varg had gotten out of bed and gone downstairs, hoping to exchange a few words with Øystein, he’d only found a letter on the fridge. It said that Øystein would be gone most of the day, maybe even the night, but that Jørn would return to the house at some point. If something should happen, there was a rifle in the shed. This didn’t really do much to calm the teenager, but alright, Varg had been around the block a few times before. He could deal with all kinds of shit, even the living dead.

He was frying eggs and bacon for breakfast when the carcass entered the kitchen and, for the first time that day, their eyes met.

“Hey…” Varg said, trying his best to sound normal. When Dead didn’t answer but simply stood in the doorway, regarding him with big eyes, he felt like he needed to say something more. “Uh, would you like an egg or something?”

Dead shook his head. “I don’t eat…”

The younger man raised a brow. “Coffee then?”

Dead only nodded in response and sat down at the kitchen table. His eyes were glued to the window, avoiding and ignoring the other man completely. Varg was a bit weirded out by the statement, but he said nothing, not wanting to upset the vocalist. Should the situation get out of hands in spite of his attempts to keep things cool, he had hidden the rifle in one of the kitchen drawers.

He put a cup of steaming hot coffee in front of Dead. “Here you go.”

The man seemed a bit confused for a moment, and he looked at Varg and made a grimace that was probably meant to look like a smile. His effort made the teen smile back. He found it amusing, though he couldn’t really explain why. This man was possibly very dangerous to be around.

“… How old are you?” the Swede asked, though his eyes rested elsewhere.

“I’m seventeen,” Varg replied while stuffing his face. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch the day before, seeing Øystein only wanted to drink wine and eat fast food, which he was fundamentally against.

The blonde frowned a bit at the information he’d been given. “Young,” was all he said.

Now that Varg took a second look at Dead, or Pelle, he saw that he looked completely different today. He had obviously taken a bath and even brushed through his hair. Varg was a bit surprised to see that it was wavy, almost fluffy in a way, and it looked good on him. But it wasn’t just that, he was being a lot friendlier today as well. Varg knew it was crazy, but he decided to try and have a decent conversation with the man.

“Is it true what Euro says…” Varg began, watching the blonde with suspicious eyes. “You dig your clothes down before gigs and cut yourself open?”

“… I know you think I’m crazy,” Dead said and his face was suddenly very grim again. “I don’t fucking care what you or Øystein think!”

Before Varg could protest, the blonde had disappeared out the main door and back into the woods. Now he knew for sure that the guy was in fact a maniac. He cursed himself for having tried to be the least bit friendly to him. He wouldn’t try it again.

 

* * *

   


It was dark outside when Dead returned to the house. He hadn’t been wearing much clothes and looked hopelessly cold, trembling rather violently as he hurried through the living room. Without as much as looking at the brunette, he rushed upstairs, probably in dire need of blankets.

When another hour had gone by, Jørn finally arrived at the house. He looked knackered, but went to sit with Varg in the living room anyways. They watched some television, but nothing interesting was on and they ended up talking about everything and nothing.

“So you’re leaving Old Funeral?”

“They’re not real,” Varg said to his defence. “They went from playing really cool techno-trash to lousy death metal.”

Jørn shook his head at the argument. “You’re beginning to sound just like Euronymous.”

While Varg knew that Jørn hadn’t meant that in an entirely positive way, he couldn’t help but to feel a bit proud. He had been idolising Øystein for quite some time now, so he assumed it was only natural that he was taking after him.

“I’ve been going a bit backwards,” Varg admitted after a draughty moment of thought. Jørn looked more suspicious than anything. He wasn’t entirely fond of the conversation topic regarding ‘realness’, which was something their guitarist was overly occupied with. “Last month, I dug up some old songs from Uruk-Hai. The lyrics were of course as dreadful as I remember them, but… I want to use some of the riffs.”

“Do you have a new band?”

“It’s a one-man project,” the younger man explained, his voice as eager as that of a young child. “I’m going to call it Burzum. I will play all the instruments myself. I mean, playing in Old Funeral was good for some time, but I need to be a bit more creative and… original. I can be so much darker on my own.”

Jørn lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “All this talk about being pure and real is really getting on my nerves these days.”

“But it’s important.”

“Why?”

Varg had to chuckle a bit at the question. It was self-explanatory. Hadn’t Øystein taught these people anything?

“Because… we’re doing something important here,” he began, rubbing his hands together. “We’re creating something. We’re a reaction to-“

“Kristian,” the bassist interfered, which earned him a glare from the teenager. “This… this thing is really starting to get extreme, don’t you think? I mean, I know you really idolise Euro, but…” he wavered. Something in his eyes told Varg that he was scared, scared of the future, and especially the future of their band. Jørn looked down at his hands. “My wife is pregnant, you know? That’s real.”

Varg didn’t really know how to respond to all of these emotions. It wasn’t his thing.

“Euro’s supporting me,” he said instead and sounded just as eager, as if Jørn hadn’t spoken out against what they were doing. “I believe the album will be out within the year.”

The bassist gave him a long look, one that said that he was less than impressed, but he didn’t say anything about it, knowing Varg was too pig-headed to listen. “I’m glad,” was all he said, but then a small smile touched his lips, and he put his hand on Varg’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You know; as long as you’re happy with what you’re doing, just go along with it. Music is in itself a beautiful thing, and you’re good at it. Just don’t let that son of a bitch pollute your creativity with his bullshit, yeah? You’re too talented and too smart for all of that shit.”

 

* * *

 

When Varg was in bed again that night, he thought about the things Jørn had told him. He had been horrified that the bassist had badmouthed Øystein, but he realised that a guy such as Euronymous could get a bit intense, and Jørn was probably a bit emotional with his old lady being pregnant and all. But maybe he meant those things? If so, it would disappoint him. Øystein was, after all, one of the greatest personalities Varg had ever encountered. He was loyal to him.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard some strange music from the other side of the wall. It wasn’t loud enough to complain about, he could manage to fall asleep either way, but something about it caught his attention.

While he listened, trying to make out which band it was, he could hear the sound of someone sobbing.


	3. Vomit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank you for the wonderful comments! :) here's another chapter for you to enjoy!

Euronymous was back again. It was New Year’s Eve and they were celebrating it the best way imaginable, having invited chosen people to come party with them at the house. Mayhem would be giving them a secret treat, playing a brief gig in the house. Everything was set up in the room where they would usually practice, and other than that, there would be some fireworks and alcohol and whatnot. Varg was super excited about seeing them live. He really couldn’t contain his eagerness very well, something Euronymous both enjoyed and disliked.

“Stop jumping around like that,” he barked from the sofa. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray upon the low coffee table, causing the teenager to frown a bit. “But it will be legendary,” he protested, replacing the frown with another huge grin.

“Varg,” he said in a very authoritarian manner that had the seventeen-year-old hold his breath. “Just be cool about it, yeah? We’re not some lowlife scum trying to be something. We’re underground – we _are_ something! We’re pure fucking darkness. Act like it.”

The younger man nodded eagerly. “Of course,” he said and then took his seat next to Øystein on the sofa.

“Want a smoke?”

“No. No, I mean it.”

Øystein heaved a sigh of frustration, but he wouldn’t be bothered enough to argue about it. He knew he wouldn’t get anywhere, and if he did, Varg would be sulking all night. “I guess I respect your choices, but t’s not like you’ll turn into him because of one lousy beer or smoke…”

The taller one shuddered at the comment, but decided not to pursue it.

Dead came running down the stairs. He looked even more like a living dead than usual, now attired in those infamous soiled clothes of his, and the black and white makeup, all of which made him appear more as a corpse than anything else.

“When it's cold, and when it's dark, the freezing moon can obsess you!” he screamed into their ears as loud as he could manage. The two of them stared at the Swede as if he was fucking insane. It was perhaps a reasonable accusation, seeing he was both starved and deathlike.

“Jeez, Pelle,” the guitarist groaned, covering his ears with his hands. “Stop being so fucking dramatic! This isn’t theatre, this is black metal.”

“Better save it for later,” Jørn interfered. His words were warm and he was far from being disgusted. He was like a voice of reason within the band, always looking out for Dead. “The audience will love that, you know.”

Dead didn’t seem to mind, but Varg knew that it wasn’t like that. He had heard him sobbing a few nights now, often after arguments or other things that may upset people. While he didn’t believe in being offended or depressed, he knew that those emotions were real. They were real to the frontman. Of course, Pelle was a very sick and twisted individual. He should’ve been at a mental hospital, not isolated in the middle of nowhere, writing depressive lyrics and digging himself deeper into the darkness.

“You took the knife,” Dead said and gave Jørn a look that was everything but nice. “You made the blade dull again.”

“I don’t want you to slice yourself up so badly tonight,” the bassist whispered in return. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

The vocalist laughed a mirthless laugh. “I’m not too fond of the prospects of being Dead yet another year,” he answered and then sat down on the floor, banging his head against the coffee table. “Dead, Dead, Dead…”

 

* * *

 

The gig had been something out of the ordinary. Dead had been screaming until he nearly fainted, either from exhaustion or dehydration, and they had only been able to do four songs. It didn’t really matter though; everyone there loved every minute of it. And Varg, who hadn’t really seen Dead perform before, was in awe. While he too sang, he could never sound as raw and as dead and pained as Dead could. The man was talented in a way that was far beyond anything Varg could perform, and that was his honest thought. But he never would admit to it.

As the evening went on, Varg found himself to be staring at the frontman more and more often, and every time he looked at him, he saw that he was sitting all by himself. He was still attired in his stage clothes and looked like something out of a horror movie. Varg was about to walk over to him when he felt someone tug at one of his sleeves.

“Varg,” Øystein said with a goofy smile plastered on his face. He was obviously intoxicated. “There are some really evil people over here you need- hey, look at me!”

The younger man felt uncomfortable. He didn’t particularly like drunk people, in fact, he kind of hated them, and seeing close friends under the influence made him nervous. Seeing Øystein drunk was taking it to a whole other level. He was someone Varg really adored and looked up to, and this just wasn’t doing him any justice.

“Don’t,” he said, pushing Øystein’s hand away. It had been lingering on his wrist for too long.

“Hey,” the guitarist snapped. He wasn’t used to Varg telling him no in any way and it made him feel angry. “I’m not your fucking dad, alright? Jeez, Varg! Why d’you always have to be such a wuss?”

Varg gave him a look of despair, feeling more and more trapped in the situation. “Sorry,” he muttered, but it wasn’t enough for Øystein. He couldn’t accept this. “You… you need to calm the fuck down, Varg. You’re a decent guy, but… but I can only take so much bullshit. Don’t let me be wrong about you.”

Øystein wrapped his hand around Varg’s wrist once again, and he squeezed it until it hurt. “Now come and talk to these people. They’ve heard a lot about you and they wanna see you!”

Varg felt a bit panicky at being forcefully dragged towards the sofa. It must have been pretty evident on his face, because all of a sudden, someone interfered, and that someone was Dead.

“Don’t you see that your friend is uncomfortable?” he asked in a very calm voice. It was too calm, enough to unsettle the guitarist, and he more or less glared at the Swede. “Fuck off, you retard!” he shouted. When Dead didn’t obey, things got very heated. Øystein nearly charged at him, pushing him out of the way. It caused him to fall to the floor, though it hadn’t been painful or anything, so he was quick to get back on his feet. But he didn’t proceed with violence, no, he simply took a hold of Varg’s other hand and stopped him.

“… Don’t let him abuse you. He feeds from it.”

Varg stopped walking, causing Øystein to turn around again. “Seriously, stop dragging me around like this,” he said and sounded angrier than he had intended. He didn’t like being treated like some toy.

“Fine,” the shorter one growled. “Go play with the Dead instead, you fucking twat.”

Øystein then spat at him. Varg was almost at the point of seeing red, but he managed to calm down enough to walk away from the situation. He tried looking for Dead again, to thank him, but the man had vanished. It was unsurprising. Dead liked to disappear when social situations became too much.

Varg spent the rest of the evening with Gylve and Jørn, not wanting to see Euronymous again until he’d sobered up enough for them to have a decent conversation. He had to admit that this had put a dent in their friendship, but it wasn’t beyond repair. Varg would have been stupid to think that Euronymous wouldn’t have an episode like that, being as intense as he was. Speaking against him had been Varg’s choice.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Varg woke up to something like the apocalypse, or the aftermath of it. Sleeping bodies were scattered all over the house, most of them in very odd positions and some of them in puddles of puke, not necessarily their own. The sight and smell of the scene before him made him shudder, and he was feeling somewhat self-satisfied that he didn’t touch alcohol or other poisonous drugs. It was a form of self-deceit that led to nothing but misery.

It was still early in the morning. Varg had gone to bed after the fireworks, not finding the presence of inebriated people very enjoyable or broadening. As he made his way to the kitchen, trying not to step on any limbs or vomit, he took notice of Øystein. He was snoring on the sofa.

The kitchen was luckily devoid of bodies, but it was a mess nonetheless, and knowing the inhabitants of the dwelling, little would be done about it. Heaving a sigh of annoyance, the young man started doing the dishes, which would only take half an eternity. The house didn’t have a dishwasher and the work had to be done manually. Varg couldn’t believe the amount of dirty glasses, plates and cutlery that had been spread around the house, and he made up his mind that he would only clean the kitchen so he could make himself breakfast.

When he had finished cleaning, he prepared a few toasted cheese sandwiches and some coffee. As soon as he had taken his first bite and sat there chewing, he could hear the main door being opened. A familiar, lanky body emerged from the hallway, taking in his surroundings. He too seemed a bit dissatisfied.

“I made some coffee,” Varg offered. The man turned to look at him, his eyes huge, but no words fell from his lips. He simply strode into the room and waited mechanically for Varg to put the coffee in front of him again.

“Here,” the younger musician said and handed him a cup. He cradled it in his bony hands for some time, waiting for his fingers to thaw up.

“… Thanks,” he said after about five minutes of silence.

“Sit down,” Varg said and kicked out the chair on the other side of the table from him. The blonde stared at him for some time, as if he had to process the request, but he eventually complied and took his seat.

“You weren’t in the woods all night, were you?”

The Swede narrowed his eyes at the question. “Maybe,” he said.

“Isn’t it very cold?”

“… Yes,” he admitted after some time. “… I like it.”

Varg gave him an odd look. “Why?”

“Winter’s my favourite time of year. Everything is… dead,” he finished. When Varg looked at him, he could see a big grin on his face.

“Ah… I see.”

The teenager hadn’t been able to think of anything else to say, feeling a bit awkward in his presence yet again, but that wasn’t new. And when he stared down into one of the books he had brought along, he could feel the Swede’s eyes as they lingered upon him, thinking thoughts Varg wasn’t allowed to hear.

When Dead eventually rose from his seat, undoubtedly wanting to crawl back into his tomb, Varg interrupted him by saying: “Before you leave”, which stole the older man’s attention. Their eyes locked.

“Thank you for… for helping me. Yesterday, I mean. It was a very difficult situation for me.”

At first the blonde didn’t do anything to respond, but he averted his gaze, staring into the wall for a long moment. When he looked back at Varg, something about his demeanour had changed. It was something Varg couldn’t quite decipher.

“He’s a bad man,” Dead whispered. “He’ll hurt you when you’re all spent. When his interest is lost… the flame always dies in the end. And then…”

Dead closed his eyes, willing away the horrible scenarios that flickered through his mind, making him feel sick to his stomach. “And then you will feel the pain.”

Varg had never heard the frontman speak so many words in one day. He was somewhat taken aback. “Uh…” was all he managed to say, wondering what all of that shit even meant.

“… I feel it now,” Dead whispered, hiding his face behind locks of hair, not wanting Varg to look at him.

The brunette didn’t know what to do. He wished that Jørn would come barging in; he always knew the right thing to say when it came to Dead and his outbursts. But before Varg could think of an appropriate way to respond, Dead had already left the room. The brunette felt relieved, but he also felt puzzled. While he didn’t trust the Swede, believing him to be a bit of a mental case, the terror on his face had been real. Had his warning been real as well? It was hard to tell, but Varg chose to dismiss it. Øystein was and remained to be his idol.  


	4. Solitude of the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :) and thank you so much for all the lovely comments <3

“No-no-no! Fucking no!” the guitarist yelled, interfering with the music. They had been rehearsing one of their new songs, one that Dead had written, but the Swede had a sore throat. He had been doing fine at the beginning of the rehearsal, but after nearly an hour of howling and screaming, he had nearly lost his voice.

“We have to make it sound like pure fucking evil! And you- you sound like-“

“Hey, Øystein,” Jan barked, obviously annoyed by his behaviour. “I think you should back off. Dead has a sore throat. He can hardly be blamed for that.”

The guitarist laughed mirthlessly at the comment. “He wanders off into the woods in the middle of the night, sometimes barefooted, and you say he’s not guilty of his illness…”

“… He has a fever,” Jørn announced, having felt the vocalist’s forehead.

“What a fucking worthless piece of shit,” Øystein snarled. “You better go fucking die in the corner or something, you little freak!”

“… Øystein,” Jørn said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were stern and angry as he regarded the guitarist.

“Oh, so you’re blaming me? Is that it, Jørn? Just look at him! He’s such a pathetic little wuss, wanting to be all evil and goes to play in the woods with all his dead mice friends. He doesn’t even catch them himself, you know? He buys them at the pet store. How pathetic is that?”

The Swede let out a small whimper at all the ugly words that were thrown at him. He felt terrified, afraid that Euronymous would do something bad again. It made him fall to the floor, making himself as small as possible.

“Go away… please, go away…”

Euronymous glared at the vocalist, willing his eyes to pierce through that thick skull of his. The childlike man had a look of intimidation on his face. He held his hand up, almost pleading for Øystein to stop what he was doing. But they were only words. The smaller man hadn’t threatened him in any way other than through his words.

“Oh, fucking get up, will you? It’s not my fault you can’t do anything right.”

“… But-“

“No!” Øystein shouted in return, not allowing for him to speak his mind. “That’s it. I’m out!”

Varg, who had been watching the two of them from the sofa, looked at Øystein with worried eyes as he dashed out the door, slamming it shut as he went. The man on the floor in front of him was trembling, hugging his knees and hiding his face. Jørn was fuming with anger.

“That asshole…” he muttered to himself. When he sat down next to Pelle on the floor, he could see that the slightly younger man had started scratching some old cuts open. There was a lot of blood.

“… Pelle,” he said in a very parental voice. It made the Swede sob, and he hid his face against the wall, wishing he could have been in the afterlife instead.

“Go get some bandages,” Jan said. He was putting his coat on. “I’m following that bastard. No way he’s taking the only car. We don’t even have bread.”

Jørn nodded in agreement. He turned to look at Varg, who was sitting quietly in the sofa, still a bit shocked by what had just transpired. “Varg?” he asked. “Can you sit with him while I get the bandages?”

The teenager nodded. “Y-yeah… of course.”

Jørn mouthed the word ‘thanks’ before leaving the rehearsal space. Pelle was still rocking back and forth in a very childlike manner. The brunette moved to sit down next to him, and without really thinking about it, he put his arm around the blonde, not at all minding the blood. Had Dead not been so out of it, he would have pushed the other man away, but he wasn’t really completely aware of his surroundings.

“Hey… Eur- Øystein isn’t here. It’ll be fine. Okay?”

The seventeen-year-old gave him a long look, feeling a bit desperate himself. He hated these situations. He wasn’t particularly good at handling them.

“… Transylvania,” the frontman whispered. “Trans…” he repeated, but his voice sounded raw and small.

Varg frowned at the comment, if one could call it that, and he shook his head. “Not yet,” he whispered back, which stilled the frontman. He seemed surprised at what Varg had just said, but he didn’t say anything about it, he just sat there, unmoving and quiet.

“Found them!” Jørn said and ran towards them, bandages in hand. As he tended to the reopened wounds, Dead leaned his head against Varg’s shoulder, searching for comfort. The brunette felt confounded. It was uncharacteristic of Dead not to shy away from all physical contact, but then again, he was quite forlorn due to Øystein’s little episode.

“There,” Jørn said and smiled. “As good as new.”

The vocalist just looked at him, his face of stone. Even so, his eyes held all of his secrets, and Varg could see something moving in there, some farfetched emotion of gratitude and tenderness.

“… You see, Varg?” he asked. “He is fire… I melt.”

 

* * *

 

Varg would be going back to Bergen in a week. He had promised his mother to stay in touch, to call every three days, but he had neglected that promise. Had it not been for the fact that the expensive train ticket had already been bought, he would have stayed at the house for another few weeks. He hadn’t really been able to talk privately with Øystein about the album he wanted to make. It would be challenging, especially when he was doing most of it alone. A thing such as a one-man metal band was unheard of. He really did need the older man’s support.

“Euro,” he said the second Øystein entered the living room. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” the shorter man said. He even offered him a smile that wasn’t ironic. Varg had caught him in a good mood, which was something of a rarity these days, mainly because Dead had been diagnosed with a throat infection. It meant that the band would have to rehearse without a vocalist for a few weeks.

“So what d’you wanna talk about?”

“Burzum.”

“Ah, right. We better get that idea into motion, and… Dead can’t sing for shit, so we have time, don’t we,” he said and rolled his eyes. “I looked at some of the drafts you gave me. They’re looking decent. So, when you’re back with mummy again, you should polish them, write a few more, and then we’ll go to Grieghallen sound studio. I will of course be there when you record the album. The sound technician there is really great, as you probably know judging by the look you’re giving me…”

Varg chuckled at the comment. “That sounds good to me,” he said and felt relieved that they had finally finished the conversation.

“Varg…”

“Hm?”

The guitarist wore a stern look to his face, a look that said he needed to pay attention. “You’re one of the most fascinating people I have encountered. Yes, you’re ridiculously young, but what you lack in years and facial hair, you make up for by being an amazing musician. I’m looking forwards to collaborating with you… so you better not disappoint me.”

The younger musician couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “This album will be immaculate. If not, I will not release it at all.”

“Also… your age is something of an issue. You don’t look very scary, or dark. This has to be done anonymously. Dark people aren’t interested in listening to music made by some shitty brat…”

Varg wasn’t sure whether he agreed or not, but he supposed that Øystein was right. “How do you mean? We won’t use my face on the cover?”

“Something like that,” Øystein said before he stood up, not interested in talking anymore. “I’ve got to visit someone… in Oslo. They’re making the shittiest music I’ve ever heard! Completely ruining black metal. So, I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”

“Um, fine,” Varg said, raising one brow. He couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but he probably wasn’t.

“Go look after Dead in the meantime, will you? Jørn and Jan are out, so… I guess someone should check up on him. Maybe he’s finally committed suicide,” he rolled his eyes at his own comment. “See you later.”

 

* * *

 Strange music emitted from Pelle’s room. Varg wasn’t sure what it was, but it most certainly wasn’t something he himself would have listened to. The door had been left slightly ajar and Varg, not sure whether he should knock or not, simply peeked inside. Pelle wasn’t in bed, he was on the floor, and he had tossed away the blankets Jørn had piled on top of him and had even opened the window.

“Why do you insist on torturing yourself like this?” he asked. The words must have sounded harsher than he had intended. The singer flinched at the accusing tone, once again hiding his face, not daring to meet Varg’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Varg was quick to say. “Sorry. I… it makes me sad, just… to see someone like this.”

Pelle turned to look at the younger man, his eyes big and somewhat questioning, like he didn’t understand why Varg was even speaking to him.

It was only then that Varg took notice of Dead’s room. The frontman had painted everything black. He had actually painted the walls without removing the pictures and paintings. He could see the frames jutting out from the wall. Then there was of course the smell of rotting meat. He had heard those rumours before, which was why he refrained from asking.

“I’m closing the window.”

“But I like it open.”

Varg rolled his eyes, annoyed that a grown man could be so childish. Without another word said, he walked over to the window and closed it. When he had done that, he walked back to Pelle.

“Come,” he said and held out his hand for Pelle to take. The vocalist just looked at his hand, not sure whether to trust Varg or not, but he went against his voice of reason and he accepted the hand. Varg pulled him to his feet, tugging at his arm in a questioning manner. “It’s too cold in here. Let’s go to the living room, yeah? I’ll make you some coffee, or tea.”

Dead followed the younger man down the stairs and into the living room. When Varg returned from the kitchen with a steaming hot cup of coffee, the blonde seemed a bit more at ease.

“… Did you poison it?”

“No?”

Dead just looked at his coffee mug, pouting a bit. “What a shame.”

The teenager had to smile at the comment, realising it was just his sense of humour. And like everything else about the Swede, it was very dark.

“Varg,” he said after a long moment of nothing. His voice sounded more like a crow than a human. Speaking had to be very painful as he had only started on his medication that day. “Yeah?”

“Why are you nice to me? Euro would not approve.”

Varg gave a half shrug. “I… I think he’s wrong about you. It puzzles me… he’s usually right about people.”

The blonde wrapped his arms around himself, almost as if he was hugging himself. “… When I… joined Mayhem,” he began and looked like he was struggling to concentrate properly. His hands were fiddling with strands of long hair and his legs were restless. “He… Euronymous, he liked me a lot. He liked my… darkness. And the craziness. It was a lot like… like you and…” he faltered, unsure of how to proceed. “You’re a puppet and he the puppet master. He thinks… or maybe is… pulling all the strings. Your strings, Varg. And you’re dancing… but then he… he stops being fond of his toy. When this happens… you’re the prey.”

The brunette had to think about this for a moment. While he was still convinced that Dead was mentally insane, he had also changed his opinion about him. Dead, or Pelle, was nothing but a child in mind and in spirit. It had been unfair to judge him so harshly to begin with. But the things he was saying about Euronymous wasn’t something Varg appreciated.

“I know he’s being mean to you. Not just mean… he’s bullying you. But only because you let him.”

Dead smiled at the statement, but it wasn’t a good smile. “He built me. He tears me down.”

The teenager snorted. “He most certainly hasn’t built you, even if he claims that he did! Øystein likes to be the boss of things. But you were a great vocalist and songwriter before Mayhem. They needed you, not the other way around, and that is the truth.”

He smiled at the compliment. This smile was a genuine one, which made Varg smile as well.

“Can I… ask you something?”

“Mhm?”

“Why do you cut yourself like that? I know it has become more and more common on stage, but… you cut yourself to the point of suicide.”

The vocalist leaned his head against the wall, his eyes glued to the ceiling rather than the other man’s eyes. “I have been… searching for darkness… for as long as I can remember. I was ten when I died.”

Varg had to frown at the peculiar answer, but before he could ask something else, the blonde held up his hand, silencing him. “My turn,” he said and smiled yet again. “You… you don’t drink. Why do you not drink or smoke, when Øystein disapproves?”

The brunette took in a deep breath. He didn’t like talking about this, and most certainly not blurt it out to people like Dead, but he felt like he was getting somewhere with him. And Dead actually cared, he hadn’t asked just to criticise, he had asked out of curiosity.

“My dad was an alcoholic,” he admitted. It felt strange to say it out loud. “He beat me and my mum. It’s not the whole reason why I choose to abstain, but… I guess it marked me.”

Dead didn’t answer. He didn’t even nod his head.

“You should go back to bed now,” Varg said when maybe twenty minutes had passed. “I think I heard Øystein’s car in the driveway.”


	5. Grave Desecrator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so busy lately! But here's a new chapter :) enjoy!

The forest was important to Varg. It was as important as the mountains, the fjords and all other things that were truly Norwegian. All the myths and the books that had been inspired by the darkness and the mysteries surrounding the woodland were important influential aspects, and they coloured him in the bleak tones of the moonlight – every shade of black and grey. He had immersed himself in the obscurity a long time ago, something that had altered him in many ways. The pile of books in his room was only growing, feeding him with the information he needed. And now, as a result, he was putting all his time and effort into his most recent creation – Burzum, or darkness. The untold ancient myths of the woodland were speaking to him, whispering words in a foreign tongue. Varg was eager to learn – eager to absorb more sense impressions, more of the diffuse creations. He wanted to be omniscient.

“… _Vísdómr bíðr_ ,” he whispered to a tall oak, wishing he could have known all its secrets. It had lived the life of many mortal men. Varg felt a deep sense of calm as he gazed at the masterpiece, a work of art created by the greatest artist of all.

Varg had taught himself Old Norse and was fluent enough to be able to write lyrics in the forgotten mother tongue, despising the fact that the modern Norwegian language was actually a variety of Danish. He hated Danish.

When he returned to the house, he was surprised to find that the door had been left open. The car was gone.

“Hello?” he said as he stepped inside. No one answered him, but he could sense a presence in the house. Varg had always been able to tell when he was alone and when he wasn’t, and this time he most certainly was not in solitude. He had a gut feeling that something was amiss, and his suspicions were justified as he took a few steps further into the living room area. At first he had thought that someone must have dropped a mug on the floor by accident, but upon closer inspection he saw that the white fragments of porcelain were stained by red drops of blood. There was a trail leading him up the stairs and to the tomb.

“… Pelle?” he asked, worried that he had hurt himself beyond repair this time.

There was no reply. Varg chose to enter the chamber in spite of this, or maybe because of it, and very little could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes.

“Pelle…”

The vocalist was on the floor again. He was leaning his weight against the bed, having been unable to crawl into the sheets. There was blood running down his face, neck and arms. Judging by the gash in his head, Varg could tell that someone had smashed the mug forcefully against his skull, probably in hope of seriously injuring the Swede. There were still tiny porcelain fragments left in the wound. It looked painful.

“… Don’t worry,” the blonde whispered, causing Varg to jump in surprise. He had believed the man to be unconscious. He rushed over to his side, feeling sick to his stomach. “I’m already Dead…” he whispered through a smile that looked more like a grimace of pain than anything else.

“Are they getting help?”

“… Mhm,” the frontman confirmed, once again closing his eyes.

“Don’t sleep,” he whispered. The feeling of despair clung to his voice. “Don’t- hey, look at me!”

It was useless. Dead didn’t respond at all, he was gone and out. Varg had no idea if he’d be back from Transylvania this time, no idea if the others would make it back in time. The thought made his eyes well up. Just then, he heard the loud blaring sound of an ambulance siren. Help was on its way.

 

* * *

 

Varg was slumped back in his seat, his arms crossed, and a frown on his face. He had become so absorbed in his pensive gazing that he failed to notice Jørn enter the waiting room. Only when a hand was being waved in front of his face did he tear his eyes from the whiteness of the hospital wall he’d been glaring at.

“He’ll be fine,” he said, hoping to lighten the situation, but he knew that Varg had been severely distressed by what had occurred. All the commotion had made the bassist realise that Varg was a lot younger than they were, and that he hadn’t experienced as much. When it came to the vocalist, nothing was predictable.

“… Were you there when it happened?” he asked quietly. There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“No, I… he and Euro were fighting and yelling at each other,” the older man sighed. “I just wanted to get out of the house for a while.”

“So you left?”

Jørn sent Varg an apologetic look, but he was regarding the wall with rigid steadiness, avoiding the other man’s gaze. The teenager was still in shock, even if it was ebbing away by now.

“If I had thought that he’d do something like this to himself… of course I wouldn’t have just walked away.”

A line appeared between Varg’s brows. A question was undoubtedly dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he said nothing, ignoring his own scepticism. The older man was about to ask him something, but just as he was about to, the large door to the waiting room swung open. A nurse in a white uniform walked towards them on steady feet.

“I’m looking for… someone named Varg?” she asked, frowning a bit at the peculiar name she had been given.

“That would be him,” Jørn said and nodded his head in Varg’s direction. The teenager seemed a bit caught off guard, but he managed to look her in the eyes. She smiled at him, as if she couldn’t wait to tell him something.

“Per Yngve wants to see you.”

 

* * *

 

Every hospital room was the same. The walls were a cool shade of grey, the curtains orange and then there was of course linoleum flooring, which was always a gruesome sight to behold.

“… Varg,” a meagre voice whispered from the hospital bed. The young musician felt hesitant as he walked towards the Swede, his feet feeling heavier than before.

“Hey,” Varg said as he took his seat next to the bed. He didn’t want to look at Pelle, but he did, and he immediately regretted it. The vocalist’s face was ashen white, and he looked like a ghost, his skin almost translucent. But what caught his attention even more were the angry, dark bruises that had started to appear on his throat. They were strangulation marks.

“You have to listen…” the blonde said, or wheezed. The nurse had informed him that Pelle was having difficulties talking due to the pain. He was still ill because of the throat infection, but Varg knew that those purplish fingerprints had more to do with it than the disease.

“I will,” he replied and, for some incomprehensible reason, put his hand on top of the Swede’s.

Pelle didn’t mind the slight touch. When their eyes met, Varg noticed that Pelle’s pale blue eyes were shimmering with tears. He had never seen him weep before.

“… I know they think I did this to myself,” he said and the sadness in his eyes grew even larger. “I didn’t. I didn’t intend… we were arguing-“

“Euronymous,” Varg said, his voice filled with silent rage. “Did he do this to you?”

The blonde didn’t reply for a long moment, averting his eyes. “Mhm…” he whispered. “He… he called me names again. And he said… he said that he would grant me death, that he would release me from my pitiful existence…” Dead was shaking. He bit down on his lower lip to keep himself from sobbing. “But… when he had injured me, he… he just fled. Jan followed him in the car. And then you were there…”

Dead looked at him with angelic eyes that were as paradoxical as they were beautiful. How Øystein could have wished to kill him was beyond any sense of reason. To Varg, Dead was the most valuable of all the members of Mayhem. He made the band stand out with his lyrics and his howling, raw vocals. Perhaps that was exactly why Øystein had wanted him dead.

“Do you want me to tell Jørn and Jan?”

“… No. No one can know.”

“Why?”

The blonde gave him a look of despair that was enough to silence him, even if he didn’t like it. What if Øystein tried to kill him once again? The thought made him feel nauseas, almost as if he was seasick. He was starting to see through the older man that he had adored so much only a few weeks ago. Now he felt a growing hostility towards him. It had been building up ever since he had arrived at the house, seeing how he treated innocents.

“… I,” Dead said, punctuating the pensive mood. “I have this band, Varg. There is Mayhem, and then there is Transylvania.”

For some reason, the blonde sounded clearer in the head than he had since Varg had first met him. Perhaps the blow to the head had done him some good.

“If we tell, then they will kick me out…”

The silence between them was eerie. Varg was staring at him with anger burning in his eyes, wanting nothing but to kick the guitarist where it would hurt him most. It was unluckily so that egoism wasn’t a limb that could be physically harmed.

“But he might kill you,” Varg tried to argue, but he knew that the battle had already been lost. “And… he will continue with his bullying. I know that you… aren’t well. I sometimes hear you, at night.”

Dead closed his eyes. A sickly smile overtook his face, and he said: “I don’t sleep. It drives me mad, especially when everyone else is asleep. My mind gets ugly.”

Varg felt genuinely bad for the blonde. He hadn’t really noticed, but their hands were still touching. Only when Dead removed his hand from underneath Varg’s did he realise what he had been doing. The thing that surprised him more was the sense of loss he experienced due to the withdrawn hand, already missing the sensation of warm skin against his own.

“… I should not say…” Dead whispered, his eyes still closed. “But I hoped that, when I awoke again, that I would be in the afterlife… I always have been cold and dark.”

The brunette put his hand on top of Dead’s again, knowing his fingers were colder than the Swede’s.

“See, Pelle?” he asked with tenderness in his voice. “You’re warm,” he whispered. “Not Dead.”

Dead opened his eyes again, his pupils focusing on their now entwined fingers. The expression on his face was something akin to fascination, though he didn’t speak his mind about his experience. Varg had in fact read about the walking corpse syndrome, perhaps better known as Cotard’s syndrome, and he knew what it entailed. He assumed that Pelle’s delusions were being challenged by the fact that his hand was warmer than Varg’s. But in reality, Pelle felt that he had been born old. He knew he wasn’t dead. What did challenge his beliefs was the feeling in his chest and hand as he touched the other man. It was a peculiar sensation, one that was completely unfamiliar to him.


	6. Day of the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, this has taken me forever :p thank you for all your beautiful comments, they are so appreciated! I will try to update on a regular basis from now on :p

It was Pelle’s birthday. He had been back at the house for a few days and his wound was starting to heal, but he still had to wear a ridiculously huge bandage around his head, much to the annoyance of everyone else. They had to keep him from scratching, tugging or plucking at it. They had installed him on the sofa, wanting to keep an eye on him at all times. He had also suffered a minor concussion and had been forbidden to do a lot of practical and physical things for a few weeks. Besides, with Pelle in the sofa, they could avoid the danger of the stairs, in case he should fall. He was far from being steady on his feet.

Euronymous had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since the hospital admission. Varg had done his best to act as if he knew nothing, and he had managed to do so without any errors. But he was still angry, and perhaps more than anything, he was confused. He had not believed for a second that Euro was capable of such extreme actions, at least not when it came to his own band and its members.

Varg decided to withhold his concerns, at least for one day. Not only was this his last day in Ski, it was also Pelle’s birthday. He had decided to cheer him up a bit, well aware that the frontman was dealing with more issues than any person should be allowed to. He was undeserving of it, perhaps to a greater extent than any of his bandmates and even Varg himself. Because Dead, in spite of being chillingly morbid and grotesque in all that he did, was not evil. One could no longer say the same about Øystein.

“What are you doing?” Jan asked the moment he entered the kitchen. It was early, at least according to the members of Mayhem who preferred to stay up late, drinking beer and smoking.

Varg gave him a long look, like he couldn’t quite comprehend the question. “I’m baking a cake,” he muttered and nodded in direction of the stove. There was in fact a cake in there.

“But… what, did you wake up this early to bake a goddamn cake?” he chuckled. “That’s a new one.”

The teenager rolled his eyes at the comment. “First thing first… it’s ten a.m.,” he started, but before he could continue, he was interrupted by the alarm that meant the cake was done and had to take it out of the oven before it got burnt.

“Second,” Varg said once the task had been done. “It’s Pelle’s birthday and I’m too broke to buy him something nice, so… I baked a cake.”

Now that he was explaining it to Hellhammer, it felt kind of lame. It wasn’t very black metal, and it most certainly wasn’t very dark or evil.

“Hmm,” Jan said, now in search of coffee filters. “Maybe he’ll eat it… since you made it. He has a bit of a soft side for you.” The muscular man started laughing at his own comment. Even if it had been something of a joke, he had also meant it. He had never seen Dead speak as much to anyone apart from maybe his brother, Anders, when they spoke on the phone on rare occasions. But he had taken a shine to Varg.

The younger man chose not to answer any further, but to focus on the cake instead. While he wasn’t a talented artist, he wanted to do his best to decorate the cake to Dead’s preferences.

 

* * *

 

Dead woke up around noon. At first he had been confused as to why he had been sleeping in the first place, and especially why he had been sleeping in the living room, but then it dawned on him. They had forced sleeping pills down his throat. It explained the headache. Sleeping pills would always make people feel like they had been knocked out, so he didn’t quite see the point. He supposed they had meant well, or maybe they had wanted to keep him from causing any more problems.

“Varg, he’s awake,” he heard Jørn say from the kitchen. They were obviously talking about him. The frontman felt a bit uneasy, as if something secret was going on, something that had to do with him. Did they want to off him? But Varg wouldn’t do that.

“Gratulerer med dagen,” Varg announced the moment he walked through the doorway. He was carrying a tray.

“… What?” Dead asked. He was rubbing his eyes, still feeling very out of it. He would make sure never to let them force such oddities down his throat again.

“Happy birthday,” Varg repeated, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “I made a cake. Hope you like it-“

“Oh, oh!” Dead exclaimed when he saw the result of Varg’s labour. The cake was shaped as a coffin, had black frosting and the inscription ‘RIP’ on the lid. There was also some ‘blood’ here and there, which was something he enjoyed far too much. He simply had to grin. “This… is so evil, it’s cute,” he whispered.

“Good,” Varg chuckled, very pleased to see the other man’s reaction. “Now you have to eat it.”

“… But then I’ll kill it,” Dead pouted. “You’ll have to slay it with me. I have a sharp knife under my bed, use that one!”

Varg raised one brow. “There are other things under that bed. I’ll get the cake server.”

When they had eaten most of the cake, earning Varg a few compliments, Euronymous entered the room, having been gone most of the day. He had needed to do some actual work.

“… What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes at the scene before him. The supposedly dark and evil members of his band were eating cake in the living room. And not only were they eating cake, they were celebrating Pelle’s birthday. The Swede was wearing one of those birthday crowns that kids would make, with glitter and everything, and it said ‘RIP Dead’.

“I decided that Pelle was in dire need of some fun,” Varg said and handed him a plate. “Here. The others say it’s good.”

Øystein more or less glared at the cake. Before anyone could say or do anything, he turned right on his heel and disappeared out the door. They could hear him as he drove away.

When the teenager turned to look at Pelle, hoping that the little episode hadn’t triggered any bad emotions, he found that the blonde was smiling and chatting away with Jan and Jørn. Varg had been there for a few weeks by then and he had never seen the Swede look as satisfied and as happy as he did in just that moment. And there was something about him that had changed. He didn’t seem so guarded anymore, more at ease, and this in spite of how bad things were between him and the guitarist.

“Oh, the car’s here,” Jan said after a few hours of random conversations. “Sorry guys, we’ll be leaving you for the night. His girlfriend’s throwing a party…”

“… Won’t you go?” Dead asked. He was looking at Varg with those big eyes of his.

“Me? I wouldn’t enjoy it. All they do is drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes and fouler things.”

The drummer shrugged at the comment, an amused smile on his lips. “We better get going, Jørn.”

“Yeah, I know. See you guys later then,” Jørn said and nodded his head in their direction as a very informal way of bidding them farewell.

 

* * *

 

Dead had fallen asleep some time ago. His head was resting against Varg’s shoulder, and he was snoring lightly, though it sounded more like tiny sighs than actual snores. Varg had surprised himself by allowing the Swede to remain like that, enjoying the sight of him while he slept. There was something innocent and beautiful about him, something childlike and pure.

When it was close to midnight, Varg decided that he needed to go to bed. He tried his best not to awaken the Swede, knowing he had sleeping issues. The last thing he needed was another sleepless night.

“… Mm, no…” the Swede whimpered. There was a faint frown on his face.

Varg froze. He hadn’t managed to manoeuvre himself out of the sofa as carefully as he would have liked. Pelle opened his eyes, blinking in an almost bewildered manner. He gazed up at Varg, who he was still leaning against, and he smiled.

“… You are different,” he croaked, his voice still broken from the throat infection. “There is kindness in you.”

Varg felt a bit overwhelmed, but he did his best to smile in return. “I was thinking of going to bed. I’m going back to Bergen tomorrow.” The comment made the blonde frown. “Oh,” was all he said. He obviously hadn’t remembered.

“I will come back,” Varg assured him, or tried to assure him. He could see that the Swede’s eyes were welling up with tears, tears of darkness and hopelessness, but he fought them. Corpses did not cry.

Varg was not entirely sure why he did it, but he put his hand on the blonde’s arm, stroking it, attempting to soothe him. Dead looked at him with an odd expression on his face, one the brunette could not decipher or at all understand. “I promise,” he said and felt his voice go thick with emotion. Dead nodded his head and began nibbling at his lower lip. He looked dubious, as if he couldn’t believe that the teenager was speaking the truth.

“I may be gone,” Dead informed him. “I can’t promise that I will linger here.”

“Stop,” Varg said. A line appeared between his brows, and he was drumming his fingers on the coffee table, though unaware that he was doing so. “Øystein is bigmouthed. He won’t hurt you, he doesn’t dare to-“

“I’m tired,” Dead said, interrupting Varg midsentence. “I’m dead tired. And there will be a day when I justify my words and cross over to the other side… to be, as Euro put it, released.”

Varg wasn’t sure what to say. He stared at the other man for a long time, stared into those huge eyes and wished he could have understood. Because while he understood some things, Dead was still a mystery to him. But he had become important to Varg, important in a way where it would have hurt Varg to see him die. He thought about this for a moment, wondering what it all meant.

“… Can I ask you something?”

“Yes?” Varg answered, deciding it was better not to dwell on such grim things.

Dead looked at him with intensity burning in his blue eyes. He truly looked like he wanted to ask him something, but in the end, he didn’t.

“You must sleep,” Dead said instead. The corners of his mouth turned up. “You made this day good,” he whispered and there was a touch of fondness in his normally monotone voice. Varg smiled back.

“Good night, Pelle.”


	7. Dethronement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this chapter is actually the end of part one! :D now you can all look forwards to part two...

Euronymous was behind the steering wheel. The air between them was somewhat tensed, as it had been ever since the unfortunate hospitalisation. It hadn’t only been unfortunate though. Knowing that the man next to him had willingly and knowingly hurt a person he considered to be his friend was beyond revolting. But at the same time, Dead had been right. As musicians, they both depended on him, and he could cut the cord at the slightest agitation.

Øystein was looking at him from the corner of his eye. His face was contorted with anger. “I don’t get why you’ve been cosying up with that freak,” he grunted, obviously annoyed with the younger man.

“… I don’t get what you’re so angry about.” Varg said and then rolled his eyes at the glare he received. “I know what you did, Øystein. Dead won’t tell on you, but I _know_.”

“You don’t know shit,” the guitarist snarled after a moment of silence, but Varg could tell that the accusation had shaken him up quite a bit. The colour had drained out of his face. “You’re not going to blame me for that shithead being suicidal. And had someone ended his miserable existence for him, he would’ve been fucking grateful.”

Varg just shook his head at the twisted words that had fallen from the older man’s lips. “Do you hear yourself talking?”

Øystein’s eyes clouded over with darkness. “You’re being disobedient, is that it, _Kristian_? Well, I can tell you this much… your career is non-existent without me. I can crush you like an ant. You know that, so you better learn to know your place, or else there isn’t any room for you… I will deem you unworthy.”

The younger man chose not to answer. He cursed himself, having tossed so many unnecessary words at the other man. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean what he had said, but there was another life on the line.

The vehicle came to a sudden halt when Euronymous pulled over at a bus stop, his hands still grasping tightly at the steering wheel. But when he turned to face Varg, the expression on his face had changed wildly from the scowl he had seen only minutes before. Sadness was now clouding his features, and he ran his hand through his hair, another sign of the profound desperation he was experiencing.

“Varg…” he whispered and then drew in a long breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of those things, I mean… these last few days have proved themselves challenging, at least to me. You were so tangled into him,” Øystein said and his voice sounded insecure, something Varg could not remember to have heard before. “I suppose, if I must be completely honest with myself… that there was some sense of jealousy.”

The older man was staring out of the window, his eyes following the traffic that floated by and disappeared into the steep darkness of the cold January morning.

“What?” Varg finally said in response. There was a frown attached to his face, one born out of confusion. “I… you injured Pelle because I spent some time with him?”

Øystein snorted. “More like every goddamn minute, if you ask me.”

“Did you hurt him because of me?”

“No!” Euronymous shouted back, but he stopped himself before it went too far, realising he had once again had an outburst of anger. The look on his face was that of despair. “I-I… it happened due to an unfortunate argument, a rather moronic one, and I feel humiliated that I could undermine myself in such a way… especially when dealing with a lesser being. Pelle can’t help his defaults… I know that.”

Varg lifted an eyebrow at the comment regarding Pelle and his so-called defaults. “Do you actually think of yourself as some kind of overman? An _übermensch_?” Øystein had to stifle a laugh at the question. “In comparison to the general population, then yes.”

“I hope you realise that, as a musician, none of us can compete with Pelle.”

Øystein didn’t reply to this. His eyes were glued to the younger man, not certain of how to proceed.

“… Varg,” he sighed after the longest time of quietude. “I must admit to something… as I have earlier said, I believe that you are one very skilled musician. But not only are you talented, you are intelligent as well. My reasons for asking you to come, they weren’t… well, they weren’t entirely selfless.”

“… No?”

“No. I-,“ the man paused himself, closing his eyes. It seemed as if he was bracing himself for something. “I was jealous of Pelle – jealous because of the time you spent together. You adored me… but now?” he gave a mirthless laugh. “It seems as if you despise me.”

Varg felt that this conversation had begun to spiral out of control. He looked at Øystein with something akin to pity in his eyes, wishing that he could be on the train and far away from him.

“I never adored you in that manner,” Varg said, his voice firm and resolute. “And I never will.” He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the other man’s gaze on his body. “It’s amusing, really… I was convinced that you were real… that you were pure. But I see now that it was a delusion. You are no different from any of the other self-absorbed bullies I have known, using other people for their own amusement. It’s sick and really, really disgusting, and in my eyes… you’re the unworthy one.”

The moment of silence that followed was nearly suffocating. Øystein looked as if he had been slapped across the face. His jaw clenched. “I will take you to the railway station,” he whispered and started up the car again.

 

* * *

 

When they were finally at the station, Varg felt relieved. He knew that he must have messed up any prospects of a good career, but honestly, he couldn’t have said that it would have been worth it. Øystein was not right in the head. It was probable that it could have led to some horribly unfortunate events in the long run.

“Are you… coming back?” Øystein asked, but his eyes were not focused on Varg, they were glued to the railway station. “… I don’t know.”

Øystein forced himself to look at the teenager. He could see anger burning in his eyes, anger that wanted to burn and eat through his flesh. Øystein plastered a smile onto his face, causing Varg to shudder. At this point, he was convinced that Øystein was capable of anything. By hurting the vocalist, he had crossed a barrier, a barrier that men such as Ted Bundy and Charles Manson had crossed before him. It couldn’t possibly end well. He didn’t want to be involved with him any longer, but there wasn’t much of a choice.

“… I’m coming to Bergen,” the guitarist announced. “Even if we aren’t friends in your eyes, I still would like to produce that album. I promised you that I would support you and, in spite of what has happened, I am still true to my word.”

“Fine,” Varg said and gave him a long look. He wanted to put an end to the conversation. “Bring the others too.”

Euronymous forced a smile. “We’ll keep in touch then.”

“Oh, and by the way,” Varg said as he was climbing out of the car. “If you lay hands on Pelle ever again… you will regret it. Do we understand each other?” he asked and glared at the older man. His request was not the least bit intimidating to the guitarist. A playful smile touched his lips. “Of course,” he said and held his hand out for Varg to take. “I promise.” Varg didn’t shake his hand; he merely turned on his heel and walked towards the train that had already arrived, hoping he wouldn’t see Euronymous again in a long time.

 

* * *

 

He was two hours into his journey. Outside the window were snow-clad fir-trees, wooden houses and people wearing quilted jackets and knitted mittens. It was a fine view, one he should have been able to enjoy, but his thoughts were centred on things of a fouler nature, things of importance.

Dead kept haunting him. He had refused to tell him goodbye that morning and had relapsed into old patterns of quietude and short sentences. Varg knew he hadn’t wanted to see him go, a sentiment that was mutual between them. It felt wrong to leave while he sat on such horrible knowledge regarding the guitarist – the man he had idolised. Perhaps it had been silly of him to blurt out that he knew what had truly happened that day. But he had hurt Pelle, probably with the intent of killing him off, and he couldn’t have kept silent about it. He had threatened Euronymous. While the older man had simply shrugged it off, Varg knew that it hadn’t been a joke, and he wasn’t a wuss.

The train would arrive in Bergen in a few hours. Varg now knew that his first priority would be to get his hands on a gun. He would make his mum do a stop at a little secret shop he had heard whispers about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to add that part two will be a lot more violent, but more romantic as well :) which sounded a bit weird in te same same sentence... hm, anyways, just stick around and you will see for yourselves :) thank you so much for all the lovely comments! Writing this has been so great.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank you for reading this. I will be posting regularly : ) comments are very appreciated though.


End file.
